What does it mean to create fearlessly? Over the past year as an Emerging Professional Artist with the National Youth Choir, I have grappled with this question in ways I never anticipated. Writing music that’s deeply personal—sometimes even vulnerable—has taught me as much about myself as it has about my craft. From setting my own words to music for the first time, to exploring the surreal world of dreams through unconventional structures, this journey has been one of risk, reflection, and discovery. Along the way, I have come to see composition not as a pursuit of perfection but as an exploration: a place to question, to fail, and to grow. Here, I will share the highs, lows, and invaluable lessons of this transformative year, from embracing vulnerability to rethinking the very process of creation.
The beginning of the process was quite daunting - “write two pieces about anything, with any text you like”. It became quite overwhelming having so much choice, so I asked myself a set of questions with the intention of honestly interrogating my wants and needs for the work. For the purpose of keeping this (relatively) succinct, I have only selected the questions that pertain to the outline of this reflection: What themes would I want to explore? Would I want to set a pre-existing text, or write my own? How would I want to connect with those for whom the piece is intended?
With some deep reflection, I felt my experiences and struggles with mental health were important for me to creatively explore and communicate, and so the theme of the first piece solidified. Basing the work on such personal experiences implored me to think carefully about the words I would use, as their meaning would carry a lot of weight for me. Thus, for the first time ever in a choral piece, I began by writing my own text. This was quite a feat for me, and honestly, it added a distinct layer of vulnerability to the process, both in writing the text itself, and in presenting the work to the choir. It is a vulnerability I have not experienced before when setting the words of other artists.
The ability to get inside a text from another writer or poet, to breathe life into the words, to mould them into a framework for music, is truly such a beautiful process that I find incredibly energising. As opposed to using the words of another writer, as I have done many times, setting my own text was quite a different experience. The poetry that would become my piece for National Youth Choir (18-25 Years), Bones and Glass, felt like a part of me; it came to me all at once, fully formed. Subsequently, the musical ideas emerged so much quicker than they would have with someone else’s words. Whole sections popped into my head at a time, demanding to be notated or recorded in some way - the voice note app on my phone is full of frantic humming... Whilst I was able to generate and distill ideas a lot quicker, the process of editing was very similar to normal - I worked on drafts like I would any other piece. Furthermore, setting my own words reinforced the necessity of utility in my writing - trying not waste a single word or note. I imbued every syllable with as much meaning, and life, as I could, with the sole aim of communicating to the heart of the listener.
Connecting and communicating with the choir and the listener through my words and music is a very purposeful intention for me. Music has a way of making the intangible tangible, of taking something deeply personal and exploring it in a way that can bring the listener closer to who they are. My favourite artists are those with whom I feel a connection through their work, feeling seen. It is precisely this exploration of the deeply personal that gives music its authenticity. Bones and Glass allowed me to really lean into the discomfort of being open, to infuse a bit more of myself in the music, to express ideas that words alone cannot quite capture. The music itself carries parts of me out into the open; perhaps the act of creation is a way of processing and making peace with them.
Sharing the music, however, brings another layer of vulnerability. It is one thing to safely explore your inner world from the comfort of a studio, and notate the music on to paper; but to have 120 incredible young musicians singing your work back to you is a completely different experience. Vulnerability on this level can, and has, caused real fears. Fears about being understood, connected with, even liked. Wondering if people will dismiss your work, and in essence, having put so much of yourself into your work, dismiss you. It is a difficult and apprehensive step to take, but ultimately I think has enabled me to begin building tools of resilience. There is strength in sharing, in creating work that is honest, even if it is scary to put out there. And so, maybe vulnerability isn’t something to be feared, but celebrated; maybe it is what makes work meaningful, transforming a series of notes into a living, breathing experience, taking on a life of its own. This piece was really necessary to me at a very difficult time, and I am grateful for it.
The second piece I composed for the National Youth Choir, Dreamer:1, was a mammoth undertaking in both text and process. I collected dreams and nightmares shared by anonymous friends and kind strangers. The response from the dream call out was so overwhelming in volume that I had enough for several pieces. Some of the dreams were so achingly beautiful, I felt they needed their own space, and I would be doing the very-kind-dreamers a disservice by trying to fit everything into one piece; thus, the Dreamer Series was born.
I explored the science of dreaming and the intricate workings of the brain during sleep—neurons firing, brain waves shifting and flowing, guiding us through distinct and vital sleep stages, each shaping the intensity and essence of our dreams in response to these states. I mapped this process into musical elements and that became the structure of the dreamer series. Dreamer:1, composed for the National Youth Choir Fellowship Ensemble, is the first in this series - Hypnagogic dreaming.
This piece was incredibly interesting to me from a structural point of view. The main focus of my thoughts were how I would move from one dream to the next in a way that remains compelling both narratively and musically. After much reflection, I decided to combine two approaches: Allowing the music and text to come in a piecemeal fashion - one influencing the other. I started with the verbatim text of a dream, worked through the music, perhaps reshaped the words, and tried to sense where the music needed to move, which in turn guided me to select the next dream.
To complement this, I drew on the concept of “Knight’s Move Thinking”—a cognitive phenomenon characterised by loose, tangential associations between ideas. This approach mirrored how I envisioned the transitions between dreams, where seemingly unrelated elements connect through an underlying thread. For instance: A shell of a giant snail turning into a spiral staircase leading down a tomb! (A little Easter Egg for the piece)
This was a wonderful practice of honing my improvisational and instinctive skills in composition. Working in this Ad Lib manner felt uniquely suited to the material and its structural demands. The way dreams flow—their randomness, uncertainty, surreal imagery, emotional depth, and the fluid nature of time—seemed to pull through me as I wrote both the text and music simultaneously. It was a process that challenged and enriched my understanding of composition.
This experience consolidated the idea that the needs of a piece inherently shape the process through which it is created. Embracing this mindset was a relatively new practice for me, one I have been reflecting on ever since. The openness and fluidity emerging in my creative process seemed to echo the spirit of the Fluxus movement. While my work, unlike much of Fluxus art, demands a tangible output, I have grown deeply curious about the process itself—how we approach it, the narratives and beliefs we carry about the art we create, and how these ideas are inherited and can be reimagined. This curiosity extends to navigating the rigidity of anxiety and perfectionism, which can so often stifle creativity. These reflections inevitably lead to more questions, suggesting there is still much to uncover. I am grateful for the space and time to explore these ideas further.
This year has really been a very transformative year for me in my approach to creating. Whilst an Artist in Residence at the Centre Cultural Irlandais in Paris for the month of November, I had a chance to deeply reflect on my year of composition, within the context of the beautiful and art-filled city I was inhabiting. One morning whilst in a particularly stunning art gallery, Musée de l’Orangerie, (that houses Monet’s infamous Water Lillies), I became completely absorbed by the painting ‘The Sailor’ (1938) by Pablo Picasso. In this surrealist work, Picasso is exploring the human form, presenting many angles all at once. As I observed the structure and the form of the painting I started to think about the notion of a ‘perfect’ piece of art, or music. Then, almost as if someone whispered it to me, a thought emerged: the art is the exploration.
I think particularly as young or emerging composers, we often feel like every single piece we produce must be perfect - that we must arrive at a place of ideas having been completely and thoroughly explored, with incredibly sophisticated harmony and rhythm. (It certainly feels that way to the more anxious among us!). The exploration of processes, of aesthetics, of trying out something new, holding space for failure and discomfort in creation - and seeing that as a necessary part of the process; these are all things I am striving to reflect on, and nurture.
A big part of my year has been exploring my own vulnerability in a public way. Writing work that is deeply personal, and now in reflecting on and writing about it, shines a light on a vulnerability that I didn’t think - perhaps naively - that I would encounter as a composer. Allowing myself to open into and accept this vulnerability, and furthermore, utilise it in the creation of a new work, I am hoping will allow both performers and audiences alike, to connect with me on a fundamental human level. It has enabled me to reflect on what I think is important when curating ideas of work, what kinds of work I want to make, and what kinds of work I find most fulfilling and exciting. These reflections have profoundly influenced my artistic growth and deepened my understanding of both my craft and my humanity.
Artists need safe places to explore their ideas, their musicality, their humour, and their vulnerability. For me, the workshop room during the National Youth Choir courses provided that space. Supported by the trust and camaraderie of my fellow Emerging Professional Artist Composers and Fellows, it became a retreat for experimentation and discovery. There is no barrier to the exploration of the idea, in fact there are several guides through the exploration.
With the support of the team and my mentor, Joanna Marsh, I was encouraged to set aside my self-imposed expectations and allow the music itself to lead the way, the art becoming the exploration. The pieces I have produced may not be ‘perfect’, - whatever that may mean - but the process has been invaluable. What I have learned through the creation of these works has made me a more thoughtful, intentional and engaged artist.
Áine Mallon
The works featured on the recording are by Jamie Powe, Crystalla Serghiou, Áine Mallon and Cameron Biles-Liddell, the four National Youth Choir Young Composers for 2024. Their works are based around the creative theme of ‘Evolve’, which coincides with the refresh of National Youth Choir’s ensemble names earlier last year.
Click here to sign up for regular updates on new releases & special offers!
